Second Chances
by Louise24601
Summary: Killian shows up at Emma's door late at night and tries to make amends for his poor behavior as a boyfriend. The best he can try to do is love her, in the only way he knows how - flawed and possibly dangerous. But maybe it isn't too late for redemption. AU. Emma/Hook. Warnings: sexual situations. Swearing.


They've been through this before. This exact argument.

"Where were you?"

"Out."

Killian's heard friends go on about how they need air from their lovers but what Killian needs is freedom, and that feels very different. Nothing urging him to wander off, and not look at his phone (not that Emma calls him anymore, in times like these), nothing _smothering_ about Emma's plush little bed, where they have to squeeze every bit of space left on the mattress when they sleep spooned in each other's arms. Those moments are fine and they don't get Killian feeling like there's a leash around his neck, and no matter how innocent-looking, Emma's soft hand is holding the other end of it –

She's a lot of things to him, but she's not a cage.

Not yet.

Killian's never had to give accounts to anyone about where he went, how long he stayed away. Now, he's a little old to start.

This time, it was a little longer than usual. Some sailor friends were in town, and they wanted to show him their ship – a beauty, they called it, but Killian's seen real beauties and thinks that boat is little else than a shiny new toy.

What Killian likes in a ship is ruggedness, temper. One who'll carry you through hurricanes, maybe, but she'll give you hell about it.

No domesticated pet.

So it's no wonder he'd go back to Emma, even after a couple of weeks of absence and absolute silence.

It's a little past midnight, but he knows Emma stays up late at night (work, work, work, she's a modern woman) and, when all's said and done, after the gravel's left their voices, after they've purged each other from every mean thing their minds have been nursing too long for restraint, she'll be happy to see him.

Maybe _happy_ isn't the word.

But Killian doesn't have a clue what real happiness means, or what else he might call it.

Emma's sitting cross-legged on the couch in her living room – old, mock-leather, with cracks in the spots that have been worn out by the years.

Now _that's_ a couch that has character. Nothing like the pretty boat Killian sailed on for the past two weeks. Killian hates that couch, but he respects it, which is more than he can say about _La Téméraire_ (the name of the boat sounds to him phony and vain, so he supposes it's appropriate). How many nights have he and Emma wound up on that couch, so uncomfortable you'd think it's made a pact with the devil to be a plight to lovers? Emma gets back aches, he gets raw knees from rubbing the crackling material, but tonight, he looks at the couch almost like an old friend.

They'll end up here tonight again, most likely.

Emma raises her eyes and shows signs of surprise sooner than anger when she sees him. Killian's face doesn't betray impatience, as he waits outside her great patio door, hands in his pockets, thoughtlessly enjoying the startle on Emma's face.

Maybe it's cruel to enjoy this game when it's so clear which one of them is getting played.

She pauses for a while – no more than a few minutes – no actual hesitation, before she gets on her feet and pads to the door. Barefoot, wrapped in a casual night robe he's seen and discarded numbers of times before.

Those two weeks at sea will have roused up his appetite. He's usually much cooler, curbing his desire until he's won Emma over. Tonight, the sight of her bare legs, still golden with an after-summer glow, her hand clutching tight at her robe, to keep it closed. It's plain she isn't wearing anything under it – not even a bra. He can see the firmness of her breasts pressing against the material, the imprints of her taut nipples as she opens the door and the coolness of the night seeps in.

"Killian, what –"

"I know," he interrupts. Wants this part done with quickly. He's in too much of a rush, and it makes him green – he has to be more cautious than that. "I'm sorry. I am. If we could just talk inside –"

"No, Killian." Her tone strikes him as colder than usual. "I don't know where you're coming from, or what exactly you were expecting – but you aren't spending the night."

A chuckle breaks his mouth into a grin – not really amused or wry. "Why not? You got another lover in here?"

"I very well might."

"So, you don't, honey."

"I don't _want_ you inside my house."

"Fair enough." The anger is latent in his tone, but he can hear it – most certainly, she can, too. Killian was sure when he came here he wasn't in the mood for this. "Then come out, and we can talk."

So far, Emma has merely cracked open the patio door, keeping both feet carefully inside the house, like he is some kind of vampire who can only enter with an invitation.

"No."

The blood in Killian's veins comes to a boil. The wind outside whistles in his ears; it stopped raining a couple of hours ago, but the grass is still wet, and for a second, he gives in to plain annoyance that they could be having this chat somewhere dry.

"What do you want me to say? That I should have called? That I'm a bastard, would that make you feel better?"

"I don't care what you do with your life." Her voice is cold, but Killian guesses the turmoil below the surface. Emma might be better at this than he is – keeping her emotions at bay – he's known her too long for her to fool him. "You want to leave town whenever you feel like it, you be my guest."

He _wishes_. In a few minutes, if he can get her calmed down –

"I just don't want to have anything to do with someone who's selfish enough to always only follow the strict course of their own pleasure."

"Now, you can't exactly call me selfish when it comes to _that_ –"

"Don't take that tone with me." She's sensed the charm in his voice, seen the hopefulness in his smile. "And I've got news for you, Killian Jones. You're just as selfish when it comes to making love as you are with everything else."

"What –"

"You please, because you _want_ to be wanted. You want to be pleaded and craved and depended on."

He sighs. "You might spare me your psychological bullshit, Emma."

"Why not? I've been hearing yours for way too long." Raising her tone, but keeping her voice soft – she is determined, he can tell. Very determined.

Which doesn't mean he won't get his way, of course.

He's not walking away from this house until he's had her.

"I don't want someone in my life who does that, Killian. Someone who can sleep in my bed for weeks and just take off without notice."

"You deserve better," he agrees, but without defeat.

Killian was never about being what Emma deserves. He's what she _wants_. Maybe even what she needs.

"You knew who I was," he says, softly – coaxing her, now, the way he knows how. "You've always known, Emma. That I don't come with strings attached."

She breaks into a startling laugh. Killian is momentarily thrown off his game.

"If you don't come with strings attached, what _the hell_ are you doing at my door, Killian? Don't you know the point of not being tied down is never returning to the same place? Because it looks to me that you're using that image of the lone wolf as an excuse to treat the people who love you like shit."

It's the first time Emma's spoken of love to him.

And Killian who's so good with words, who could charm his way out of the devil's grip, suddenly can't think of a thing to say to her.

"Tell me," she says, "exactly _why_ do you do this? Disappear, just when everything's right for us – why is it you feel compelled to destroy the things that make you happy?"

The words feel like attacks, and they come up against a wall of ready pride. It doesn't matter that even he can hear how right she is.

"You don't know me, Emma. So don't act like you're so bloody sure – you don't know. You don't fucking know."

"I _know_." Emma sighs; no feigned weariness, no theatricals. It crosses Killian's mind she's truly tired of him. He can see himself, ten years later, playing those same old tricks that'll feel stale and pathetic. "I've known people like you. _Men_ like you, who brag about freedom and use it to self-destruct. You want to be free, Killian, you think letting me believe you may be dead somewhere in a ditch instead of picking up your phone is freedom?" She's laughing again. It's not cruel, but to Killian's ears, it rings very cold – and very true. "Congratulations. You are officially the captain of your own shipwreck. Praise freedom. Now get out of my lawn."

"Emma –"

"I mean it."

But he means it more.

Before he's had time to think of what he was doing, Killian's on his knees – he can feel the mud soaking through his jeans – his hands are raised, as a vague pledge of surrender.

Emma stares bemusedly for a while, but thank God, there's no pity in her eyes, no disgust.

"Please."

Killian finds, when he's put pride aside, every excuse he comes up with for himself, it's fairly easy to just be himself. No mask, no tricks.

And to his surprise, he feels no shame, kneeling in front of Emma's door, as she holds all the cards – all the power.

That's what it's really about, maybe. Killian's lifestyle.

Power.

When you leave people, you're always the one who's in control – even if you love them. Even if you go back to them.

When you leave people, you can't be _left_, don't have to suffer the ordeal of having your dear happiness wrenched from your clasped hands.

And Emma is right. Probably, Killian thought it would be easier to lose her all by himself, rather than allow himself to live on dreams – to think Emma might actually want him, for more than just a few sleepless weeks of mind-blowing sex.

"Get up," she whispers. Her voice is gentle; anger has subsided.

He obeys.

The patio door opens wide and he slithers inside, like a wet dog, head bowed, tail between its legs.

Emma's hand wraps around his shoulder, feels the moistness soaking through his shirt. He still smells like sea salt, hasn't changed his clothes since he left solid land.

"Come."

Emma leads him softly to the upstairs bathroom, and with each step, Killian thinks it'll come back, his anger, that black coat of pride he's been wearing since he can remember, and before he can help it, he's sure he'll be screaming – _let go of me, I don't need you, I don't need anybody_.

But he stays calm and collected, allows himself to be guided, Emma's fingers locked tight around his own, even though he could find his way around the house in full blown darkness.

Her bathroom is very small, basics only – a shower, a sink, and a mirror which he dutifully avoids, treating his own reflection like a ghost. Emma turns on the tap and soon, steam is fogging up the mirror and walls. Reality narrows itself down to the blonde, majestic woman in front of him, who stands tall, before the shower cabin.

Killian himself is leant against the wall by the door, where she left him, but the room is small enough that they're only a few steps away from touching.

"Take your clothes off."

He does as he's told, expects she might actually help him with this – Emma's not known for her patience, is usually reaching for his belt by the time he's slid off his shirt, but not tonight.

Instead, she watches coolly as he peals off layer after layer, jacket, shirt, jeans, while her night robe is still tied firmly at her waist.

It's only fair, that he should buy her trust now by showing what he's withheld from her at all costs –

Vulnerability.

Yes, there is vulnerability, oddly, now, in his nakedness.

Emma asks him to get in, and Killian closes his eyes when the warm spray hits his face. The door of the shower cabin is still open. He could catch her looking if he meant to, but he realizes he'd rather face the blackness in his mind – exhausted from the past weeks, taking his friends down dangerous waters, waters in which he wouldn't trust anyone as a captain except himself.

Of course, when all lies are abandoned, Killian knows that he's been running. Even knows what he's been running from.

If he behaves like a bastard, if he keeps leaving her, then he doesn't have to _try_ to be a decent man for her. And if there's no trying then there's no failing.

How easier Killian finds it to be hated rather than to be loved.

How easy can it be to love a man who hates himself?

His eyes remain shut, even as he feels Emma's soft skin lacing around him – fingers wander across his back, grip at his shoulder blades and hold tight. In a second, he can feel her firm breasts pressing into his chest, her pubic hair brushing against his hip.

"Is that so frightening to you?" She asks.

It crosses his mind that they've never showered together before.

"Not really," he admits. "Not anymore."

Her lips lean softly into his and he opens his mouth, trusting, resisting the temptation of opening his eyes, and pinning her against the tile wall –

Allowing himself to be guided, like a man lost at sea, drifting on his back to the feel of the waves.

Deliberately yielding his control to her.

If it's what it takes for her to forgive him.

He feels himself stiffen against her thigh as her kisses turn more earnest. "It's the last time, Killian," she speaks in his ear, no thoughtless whisper. He knows a warning when he hears it. "You ever do something like that to me again – I'm gone. You know this."

"Yes." He agrees, and hopes with all his strengths this sudden lucidity will still be with him at dawn.

_Don't mess this up_, he thinks to himself, harsh with self-discipline. _You've blown second chances and third chances and all the ones that came after that, now's all you're ever going to get so don't mess it up._

But through the blackness of his closed lids, he finds a crack of light, announcing a new world coming awake. Killian wants to be hopeful. To think he can do this.

The thoughts should quiet down with Emma's deep moan as he slides inside her, but instead, they grow louder.

_If I'm enough of an idiot to leave her again and blow this, _he thinks, _misery and I deserve each other_.

…

**End Notes**: My last Hook/Emma story "Valentine's Day" apparently put me in the mood for more romantic one-shots. Please let me know your thoughts.


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